


Despair - Part I: Astoria - Part II: Scorpius

by unkissed



Series: Into the Heart of Darkness: A Collection of A/U Twisted Tales [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Dark, Child Abuse, Depression, F/M, Gambling Addiction, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Infidelity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Astoria looks in the mirror, she sees the fairest princess in all the lands.  Inside, she feels empty – hollowed out by loveless sex.  She is the epitome of the pretty void – the sort of lady that her mother had told her all pureblood men want.  But her mother never told her it would feel quite so miserable – she never told Astoria that the vacancy in her heart would be filled with so much despair.</p><p>Fourth in a series of twisted A/U tales in which Astoria rules her Kingdom of Despair, and Scorpius finds his fairy tale prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Astoria

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains material that might trigger or squick some readers. Proceed with caution and take those archive warnings and tags seriously. I will tell you right now that there is NO Astoria/Scorpius incest in this story.
> 
> Despair, Desire, and Dream from Neil Gaiman's Sandman universe make an appearance.
> 
> Much love and gratitude goes out to ColorfulStabwound, Draco_Amante, and Shan for inspiration, friendship, and support. Daphne is modeled after a certain Greengrass in the Twitterverse, who does not belong to me. Draco is modeled after ColorfulStabwound's Draco, which should probably just go without saying by now.

Astoria fancies herself a fairytale princess as she flounces about the unkempt garden in an oversized sundress and tiara. She muddies the white lace trim as she carelessly steps into the weed-infested flowerbeds. She is eight-years-old and appears blissfully unaware of the Hell she is about to pay as she twirls around, giggling to herself.  Or perhaps she knows. Perhaps she simply doesn’t care.

 

Perhaps she took her big sister’s party dress on purpose, knowing full well that Daphne was to wear it to Narcissa Malfoy’s annual Witches’ Guild fundraiser luncheon in a few hours – the very fancy event to which their mother would not be taking Astoria – not this year, not next year, nor any year after that as long as Daphne remained mother’s favorite.

 

She acts out the muggle stories from the picture books her parents had discouraged her to read – _The Cinder Wench_ , _Snow White Rose Red, The Sea Maiden._  She curtsies and bows to a handsome prince, who takes her hand and kisses it as she blushes coyly.  They dance and she captivates everyone at the royal ball.  At the stroke of midnight, she flees from the palace just before the spell breaks.

 

As Astoria runs down the crumbling steps of the terrace, she kicks off her little shoe and daintily feigns shock at losing a glass slipper.  The shoe lands in the moss-enshrouded fountain with a splash.  Tink, the Greengrass family house elf, fetches it out of the water before the expensive leather is ruined.

 

Then a voice shreds through the thick summer air with an angry shriek.  “Astoria Genevieve! What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

 

She gasps over-dramatically with the back of her hand on her forehead.  “Oh dear, the evil stepmother has found us!  Must I sweep out the chimney yet again?”

 

Astoria’s actual mother by birth, dressed in her finest hat and summer frock straight from the best purveyor of witches’ robes in Paris, storms onto the terrace.  Though it is more of a drizzle than a storm, for the heels of her very high shoes _click-click-click_ precariously across the cracked marble. And the potions that tighten the skin of her face have rendered her expression a permanent soft smile, lessening the impact of what is meant to be an angry glare.

 

“You have some nerve, stealing your sister’s dress!” she says, perching her hands on her tiny hips.

 

“I didn’t steal it, mother,” Astoria huffs indignantly, “I only borrowed it.”

 

“It is not yours to borrow,” says Astoria’s mother, “It was made especially for Daphne and I spent a pretty sickle on it. Take it off this instant before you ruin it further, and march back upstairs.  I want it clean, pressed, and in Daphne’s room the way you found it!”

 

Astoria frowns and replies resentfully, “Yes, mother.”

 

“Furthermore, you will remain in your room until we return tonight.  Practice your penmanship and posture with Tink,” she commands.

 

Inside the house Astoria weeps loudly without spilling a single tear upon the threadbare duvet of her bed as Tink does the actual salvaging of Daphne’s ruined dress.  Of course, her mother hadn’t expected Astoria to actually do servants’ work – such a thing is unbecoming of a lady.

 

Daphne comes into Astoria’s room unannounced with her brown locks done up in voluminous curls, wearing just a slip that had once been their mother’s.  Daphne yanks the dress from Tink’s little fingers before the elf can finish removing a spot of mud.

 

“Oh, shut it, Tori,” Daphne scolds as she steps into the dress, “Just be glad you don’t have to go to this stupid party. They are always so tedious. The ladies speak so vacantly while their offspring run amok like animals through the garden.  It’s positively ghastly.”

 

Astoria simply blinks at her sister. Daphne uses quite a lot of big words for an eleven-year-old.  Astoria wonders if Daphne even knows what she’s saying, or is just spouting out things she’s read in novels – those long muggle tomes of romance and despair that are far too advanced for her, and incidentally discouraged from reading by their parents.

 

“Will there be boys at the party?” Astoria asks with wide, curious, glacial blue eyes.

 

“Boys?  Not so much.  Little monsters who fancy themselves young gentlemen?  Definitely,” Daphne answers with an expression of distaste and dread.

 

Astoria sighs dreamily, propping up her head in her hands, “Maybe you’ll meet a nice one.  A handsome one.  Maybe he’ll ask to be your boyfriend and you’ll get married some day.”

 

Daphne rolls her eyes, which are the same iceberg blue, but much colder.  “Gods, I doubt it,” she snorts primly, “It’s always the same horrid boys every year. If mother means for me to marry one of them some day, then I hope I die an early death.”

 

Astoria has already tuned out her sister and is imagining a fairytale scenario in her head, in which she magically gains entrance to Malfoy Manor and meets a dashing young wizard, who falls in love with her and turns out to be a prince.

 

 

~//~

 

 

Astoria is eleven when she is allowed to attend her first Witches’ Guild garden party at Malfoy manor.  Though she has not replaced Daphne as their mother’s favorite, she has taken up the role of the daughter most likely to land a high society pure blood husband some day.  Her sister is far too prideful and deems herself superior to all the boys of The Sacred Twenty-Eight – those wizard families with the purest blood in all the British Isles.

 

Astoria is more excited for this soiree than the prospect of starting Hogwarts at the end of the summer.  She still fancies herself a fairytale princess and goes so far as to wear a rhinestone tiara.

 

“Take that thing off your head. You look ridiculous,” says her mother as they prepare to leave the house for the party.

 

Astoria pouts petulantly and plucks the costume tiara out of her hair.  “How am I to catch a prince without a crown, mother?”

 

Her mother busies her manicured fingers with Astoria’s hair, tucking the loosened blond strands back into place. “The thing you must remember about the sons of The Sacred Twenty-Eight is that, though they fancy themselves royalty, they do not want a wife who thinks she is better than her husband.” Her sharp fingernails scrape Astoria’s scalp accidentally, causing the girl to whine.  She holds her daughter’s face in her hands and asserts, her ice-blue eyes driving her point home, “You are not better than them. You are a means of ensuring the continuance of a pure bloodline, and these men want subservient wives – not princesses.”

 

During this whole exchange, Daphne looks positively bitter.  “I’d rather die an old spinster than marry into one of those families.  Not a single upstanding gentleman amongst the lot of them.”

 

Their mother sighs wearily, having long given up hope of convincing Daphne otherwise.  “What will you do after Hogwarts Daphne?” she scoffs before her daughter can answer, “Work?  Because that’s the only way you’ll be able to survive otherwise.  Your father has gambled away nearly all of your inheritance. There’s barely enough for you and your sister’s dowries.”

 

Daphne twists her mouth and mutters under her breath, “There seems to be enough gold in our vaults for your new pair of crocodile shoes.”

 

Endora Greengrass misses nothing. Her coral red lips become thin as she speaks in a deadly whisper, “I _earned_ these shoes.  All the years, putting up with your drunkard of a father, training up two ungrateful little girls to be proper ladies, sacrificing _my_ happiness for the good of _his_ family name and _his_ bloodline while watching the noble house of Selwyn being disgraced by my death eater cousin and die with my father.”

 

Daphne’s head quickly bows shamefully, having been swiftly cut down to size by their mother’s diatribe.  “I’m sorry mother.  You’re right.  You deserve those shoes.” She hugs their mother tightly.

 

Astoria tries to get her arms around their mother, but Daphne swivels around to thwart her efforts.  Astoria pouts deeply and asks, “Mother, is daddy coming home soon?” At least their father always managed to have room for Astoria’s embrace, though the warmth of his arms seems like a distant memory.

 

“Not until his debt is paid,” their mother answers. “Until then, he is in the service of Mr. Malfoy and must do his bidding, even if it means he must stay abroad to finish his work.”

 

“I know, I know, mother,” Astoria replies impatiently, “but he’s been away for _so_ long. Surely he must be done by now?” Astoria asks.

 

“I’m afraid not,” their mother says with more bitterness than regret, “I don’t know if that debt can ever be paid. You must not depend on your father for anything.  You must find an ideal husband who can take care of you when you come of age.”

 

“Why can’t _you_ take care of me, mother?” Astoria asks, petulant.

 

“Look around you, girl.  Do you not see Greengrass Manor crumbling around you? This estate was a palace once and now it is nearly in ruins.  I barely have enough gold to keep us fed and properly dressed.”

 

“Perhaps if I just wore Daphne’s old clothes, we could--” Astoria begins to suggest.

 

But her mother swiftly shuts her down with a gasp as her lace-gloved hand clutches her pearls like a lifeline, “No daughter of mine will be seen in public wearing hand-me-downs!  For shame!”

 

 

Endora would rather have her house fall apart than be seen with her daughters in anything less than the best designer robes. Because, Merlin forbid, anybody should believe that the Greengrass family is anything other than as obscenely rich as the rest of the high society pureblood families with which they mingle.

 

But Astoria doesn’t see things the way her mother does. Her house is grand. She has never ventured very far from it, and it is all she has ever known.  It has everything that all the castles in her favorite storybooks have – a garden, a ballroom, a grand dining room, an elegant drawing room, and servants. Well, just the one servant, really. But still.  Astoria doesn’t realize that she is not a princess in a perfect home.

 

She still doesn’t want to believe a word her mother is saying.  In Astoria’s mind, they really are rich – wealthier than all the wizarding folk in Groening, for sure – how could they not be, when the whole town is named after their ancestors? There is more than enough gold in their vault.  And Daddy is coming back soon.

 

But one doesn’t realize that they are left wanting, until they are shown what they could potentially have. Astoria hadn’t known that the grass was greener on the other side because she’d never seen what lay beyond her own very small world.

 

 

Malfoy Manor is stunning.  Astoria has never seen a more glorious estate. The gardens in the front of the house are neatly kept with not a single weed befouling the perfectly trimmed rose bushes.  There is not a crack in the flagstone walkway leading up to the house, not a chip in the bricks of the facade. The marble pillars in the entryway are so clean and smooth that they gleam in the sun.  Inside, the furnishings are sumptuous and elegant, made of the finest fabrics and exotic wood.  Everything is adorned with glittering crystal and gold and silver, from the massive chandeliers to the gilded frames displaying proud ancestors.

 

Astoria is barely able to contain her awe, but a lady doesn’t gawk.  A lady doesn’t appear too impressed.  But inside, her imagination is running wild over the lush Persian rugs and up the grand staircase. This is a castle more beautiful than anything she has conjured in her mind based on her fairy stories.

 

Behind the manor house, the estate expands further than she even knew was possible.  The Malfoys own the land for miles and miles.  Astoria stands on the terrace and imagines herself riding a unicorn across the green lawns that softly roll down to a huge lake.

 

She is startled out of her reverie when her mother’s hand falls upon her shoulder.  “Astoria dear, pay your respects to the lady of the house.”

 

Astoria turns around and curtsies daintily as she has been taught.  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Malfoy.  You have a lovely home.  Thank you for graciously inviting me.”

 

Narcissa Malfoy is not unlike her own mother. She is dressed in the latest Parisian style and wears a faint smile.  “Such a charming young lady.  Please, Astoria, feel at home here.  The other children are playing amongst the topiaries.”  She gestures with a lace-gloved hand to a neat cluster of artfully sculpted hedges.  “Feel free to mingle amongst them.  There you will find my son, Draco.  He is a classmate of your sister’s.”

 

Astoria had heard Daphne casually speaking of Draco on occasion. The idea of the Malfoys’ son suddenly excites her, for such a luxurious palace must have a charming prince. 

 

She finds him behind an egg-shaped juniper bush with another boy, sitting very close together on an ornate wrought iron bench. She knows nothing about Draco, but guesses that he is the better looking of the two boys, the one with hair as pale blond as Narcissa Malfoy’s.  His posture is regal and proud, his facial features are sharp and handsome, but it is his wicked smirk that makes Astoria’s young heart flutter. The other boy is slouchy, with overgrown black hair and a self-important expression on his gaunt face.

 

Draco looks up and snaps, “Oi! What do you want?”

 

“I would like to be introduced to the young lord of Malfoy Manor,” Astoria replies, quite formally, standing as tall and straight as she can, doing her best to appear mature and proper.

 

The dark haired boy snorts and quirks a brow at the fair haired boy.  “Young lord? Does she mean you?”

 

The fair haired boy responds to his companion with a cocky drawl, “Damn right, I’m the lord of this house when my father is away,” which only earns him a pair of rolling cerulean eyes.  He turns to Astoria and narrows his own grey eyes at her suspiciously,  “Who wants to know?”

 

“Astoria Genevieve, youngest daughter of the noble House of Greengrass,” she replies, touting herself like royalty.

 

The two boys sarcastically feign being utterly impressed.  “What an honor to meet you, your majesty,” the fair-haired boy mocks.

 

The dark haired boy stands and gestures with a dramatic flourish.  “It is my honor to present to you, His Royal Haughtiness, Draco Thomas Lucius of the most pureblooded and esteemed House of Malfoy.”

 

Astoria is quite done with the boys making fun of her. She crosses her arms, and turns up her nose.  “And who presents him? His royal arse kisser?”

 

The dark haired boy sniffs superiorly. “Hardly.  I’m Theodore.”

 

 “Just Theodore? How common,” she scoffs airily.

 

“Run along, little girl,” Draco dismisses her, “Go find your sister.  She’s probably off somewhere, shoving her tongue down Vaisey’s throat.”  The two boys snicker and lean their heads close to whisper conspiratorially, summarily ignoring Astoria.

 

She huffs indignantly and quickly turns on her heel, muttering in her wake, “How utterly rude.  I’m not a little girl.  I’m a lady.  Disgusting boys. Daph was right.”

 

 

Draco turns out to be anything but Prince Charming. But even at eleven, Astoria sees his potential.

 

~//~

 

Ever since she had experienced true luxury at Malfoy Manor, Astoria has been growing increasingly disillusioned with her own environment.

 

The disrepair and the dust of her manor house are becoming apparent.  The mirrors of that grand ballroom are spotted with mildew and the floors no longer shine. Not that it matters – there hasn’t been a party at Greengrass Manor in ages, nor will there be any in the foreseeable future.  The paper is peeling from the walls of that elegant drawing room and there isn’t anywhere to sit that isn’t covered with protective sheets – not that Endora is hosting tea these days. The garden is a wild tangle of weeds creeping around broken statues and it has become increasingly hazardous for Astoria to play in it – not that she’s ever in the mood anymore. The house elf is aging and terribly overburdened by the work it takes to care for three very high-maintenance ladies.

 

If one didn’t know better, they would think The Greengrasses had moved away and left a few things behind.  So much of their possessions had been sold to pay off Huguenot Greengrass’ gambling debts.  Still, it had not been enough.  He borrowed a great deal of money from Lucius Malfoy and is in essence his indentured servant, carrying out some sort of shady business across the pond.

 

But to see Endora with her girls in town, one wouldn’t know they are in dire straits.  They are always smartly dressed.  And their acting could win them awards.  The lies they weave are more elaborate than the embroidered lace robes they wear.

 

Now, more than ever, Astoria dreams of being rescued by a handsome prince to live in a prosperous far-off kingdom in the lap of luxury.  At twelve-years-old, she has no promising prospects, though one would think the Slytherin dorms in which she resides would be a veritable buffet of tasty, young pureblood boys. After that first encounter with Draco and one semester at Hogwarts, she now understands why Daphne had been so dismissive of her male classmates.  Each and every one of them is spoiled, entitled, arrogant, and disrespectful. They’ve been raised to view girls as trophies to be displayed and as receptacles to be used.  Daphne was right – there is not a single upstanding gentleman among them.

 

Astoria isn’t resourceful and intellectual like her sister – she knows she has no chance of a successful career, no hope of being able to support herself once she comes of age.  Her only hope of survival is to find a rich husband. If she has to figuratively turn one of these frogs into a prince, she’ll do it.  And right now, she has her sights on Draco – the most arrogant, entitled, and awful boy of them all, who also happens to be the wealthiest. She wouldn’t be a Slytherin if she were not ambitious.

 

It won’t be easy.  Getting anywhere near Draco is damn near impossible. Theodore and Draco are practically conjoined at the head – any closer, and Theodore would be inside Draco, which is where Astoria suspects he’d like to be.  When Theodore manages to dislodge from him, Pansy Parkinson has her claws in Draco.

 

She may not be the most clever witch, but Astoria is smart enough to know that she has a better chance of getting close to Draco by charming the snakes that constantly coil around him, rather than trying to beat them away with sticks. 

 

Astoria quickly becomes Pansy’s little protégé. From her, Astoria learns how to use her feminine charms to slither her way into Draco’s social circle. Right now, she’s in the background. She’s still Daphne’s unassuming little sister – in Draco’s eyes, that amounts to _nobody_.

 

But, someday, Astoria will be _somebody_.  And, someday, her prince will come.

 

 

~//~

 

 

In daddy’s big arms, Astoria feels like she’s wrapped up in furs – warm, protected, and swathed in fuzzy luxury. She’s thirteen, but she still scratches his chestnut beard the way she always had since she was a baby. He still smells the same – like leather, sandalwood cologne, and Ogden’s Finest.

 

It has been five years since he’s been home for more than a few-week-stretch.  Daddy promises that he’s home for good now.  His debt isn’t paid, but he’s no longer in the service of Lucius Malfoy. That’s because Lucius is in prison.

 

It’s a shame, really.  She’d been making some progress with Draco over her second year at Hogwarts  – he had stopped calling her _little girl_ and had taken to calling her _Greengrass._ But her efforts were all for naught. The Malfoys were now social pariahs, and her mother had taught her to value reputation even greater than money. Who’d want to be married to the son of a convicted Death Eater, even with all of his wealth and his good looks?

 

It doesn’t matter anymore anyway – daddy is home. And daddy will take care of Astoria until her prince comes along.  He sits in the worn leather chair in his study, doting on his daughter who is perched on his lap.  He promises to buy her an owl of her own before the summer is through.  She squeals with excitement.

 

She folds her legs, but she doesn’t fit on daddy’s lap like she used to, and he notices.  “You’ve grown so much, my darling,” he says wistfully as his broad hand slides over her long, skinny calves. 

 

“Will I always be your favorite little girl, daddy?” Astoria asks with just a hint of worry furrowing her brow, “No matter how big I get?”

 

“Until you become a lady.  And then you will be daddy’s favorite little lady.” His beard tickles her face when he kisses her cheek and she giggles.

 

 “Mother says I’m expected to behave like a proper young lady,” she says, raising her chin proudly, perhaps subtly mocking her mother’s words, “Which means that I am already a lady.”

 

“In some ways, yes,” he says sagely, “But not all ways.”

 

Astoria tilts her head curiously.

 

He explains, “There are things a man must do in order for a girl to become a fully actualized lady.”

 

Her brow creases again, this time more deeply with concern.  “But mother says that I am to find a suitable gentleman to marry.  She says I have no hope of doing that if I do not present myself as a lady rather than a girl.”

 

“Don’t fret, my darling,” he reassures her as he fondly tucks an errant lock of her blond hair behind her ear. “There are some things only a father can teach a girl.  I’m here now to show you.”

 

Astoria, impatient as ever, asks, “Can you teach me now?”

 

“Of course.”  The warmth of his smile reaches all the way to his eyes in ways that her mother’s rigid smile never has.  “Lock the door and fetch daddy another glass of Ogden’s.”

 

Astoria hops off daddy’s lap excitedly. As she pours whiskey into a cloudy crystal tumbler, he says casually, “Oh, and you need not tell your mother about this.  Nor Daphne.”

 

He never had to ask.  Astoria was never going to tell anybody.  She is daddy’s special little girl – little _lady_ – and neither her mother nor her sister was going to ruin it for her.

 

 

~//~

 

Astoria is fourteen.

 

 

“Oh _fuck_...,” Blaise whispers hotly, head tilted back in ecstasy, as his fingers tighten in her hair.

 

She lifts her head, bucking his grasp, and takes a much-needed breath of air.  “Honestly, Blaise, your language leaves much to be desired,” she admonishes. Her tongue has stopped working on him, but her hand has not.

 

“Why’d you stop?” he whines breathily, “I’m so close.”

 

“A proper lady doesn’t swallow,” she declares.

 

“Oh, come on, please, don’t stop,” he pleads with a groan, “A proper lady doesn’t suck cock, so what does it matter if I come in your mouth?”

 

“Not true,” she says primly, still working Blaise’s formidable length with her fingers.  “A proper lady is in complete service of her man’s pleasure, but a proper gentleman doesn’t finish _that way_.”

 

“Right, so put it back in your mouth,” he says impatiently.

 

“Only if you promise not to finish in my mouth.” Astoria smirks and flicks her tongue teasingly. She suppresses a gag when she tastes bitterness.

 

“Gods,” Blaise growls quietly in exasperation, “Where did you learn these stupid rules?  They’re killing me.”

 

“From a proper gentleman.”  Her eyes remain fixed on his when she closes her mouth over Blaise, but only once.  “Which you are not, it would seem.”

 

“I’ll carry your books.  Hold doors open for you.  Pull out your chair for you,” he offers desperately, “Just _please_ let me fuck your face.”

 

Blaise is perhaps the most handsome boy in all of Slytherin house, but a prince, he is not – certainly not with that awful mouth of his.  But he’s rich and his family has no known ties to the Death Eaters, so Astoria puts up with him. Anyway, he has his uses.

 

“Do my Potions homework for me?” she asks, gazing at Blaise with doe eyes, before painting a wet, hot stripe up the underside of the desperate need she hefts in her dainty hand.

 

“ _Fuck_ yes,” he groans out, twisting his fingers in Astoria’s hair.

 

“Tell me you love me,” She whispers hotly against his swollen flesh and swirls her tongue languidly.

 

“Nobody makes me feel the way you do,” he breathes out. Astoria’s lips close upon him and she takes him as far down her throat as she can – far enough to inspire Blaise to declare with a rapturous moan, “I fucking love you.”

 

Astoria knows he doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t love him either, but his sweet lies still make her ache inside.  She knows that she deserves better.  And it kills her that she has to settle for anything less than her perfect fairy tale.

 

Blaise will make a mess of her robes, just like he always does.  Outside of their rendezvous in the quidditch changing rooms, he will go on pretending that Astoria is just Daphne’s little sister.  Because no respectable sixth year Slytherin boy would take a fourth year as a girlfriend despite her precociousness – he’d rather appear unattached.

 

At least she can rest assured that her reputation will stay intact.  She knows Blaise would never tell anyone what they do, not even to brag.  She’ll take his cock and his filthy words over the next two years, and she will take very little pleasure or joy in it – not when he fucks her under the quidditch stands, not even when he’s _generous_ enough to go down on her for her fifteenth birthday. She won’t be happy until Blaise ceases to be ashamed of her.

 

When Astoria looks in the mirror, she sees the fairest princess in all the lands.  Inside, she feels empty – hollowed out by loveless sex.  She is the epitome of the pretty void – the sort of lady that her mother had told her all pureblood men want.  But her mother never told her it would feel quite so miserable – she never told Astoria that the vacancy in her heart would be filled with so much despair. Astoria doesn’t know it now, but it will only get worse as she grows up.

 

As winter turns to spring in Blaise’s final year of Hogwarts, Astoria begins to lose hope.  The wizarding world has changed drastically over the past several months.  There had been a shift in power.  And perhaps aligning herself with a young man on the winning side of the war would be a better strategy. Blaise has not outwardly pledged his allegiance either way and has kept his head down in the storm, while others in Slytherin have banded together in union with the new regime. And she’s tired of waiting for Blaise to publicly acknowledge their relationship.

 

The next time Blaise sends Astoria a note asking her to meet him behind the greenhouses, she doesn’t show up. Less than a week later, Blaise has a pretty, pureblood, Ravenclaw girl on his arm.

 

 

~//~

 

 

“You look like you could use a friend,” says Astoria, sliding into the seat next to Draco at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. 

 

Hogwarts feels so empty this year. Ever since the death of Dumbledore a year ago, the school has been steadily emptying out, even despite the new laws that make attendance compulsory. Lunch is always a lonely affair.

 

Draco mutters grumpily over his uneaten cucumber sandwich, “Do I look like a bloody loser to you?”

 

Astoria is undeterred.  She’s grown accustomed to the blatant rudeness of all the boys in Slytherin and nothing fazes her.

 

She freely gives her assessment. “No, but you _are_ eating alone and you could probably do with some company – if not just to appear less pathetic.”

 

“So I do look like a loser.”  Draco shrugs weakly and appears like he couldn’t be arsed to care.

 

“You miss him, don’t you?”  It is more a statement than a question.  “Theodore?”

 

“Hardly,” Draco snorts, “Theodore is a coward. I couldn’t give two bloody shits that he ran away and left us to rot in this Hell.”

 

“I know resentment when I see it,” Astoria says casually, stealing a crisp off Draco’s plate, “And you, Draco Malfoy, look as bitter as a pepper up potion.”

 

“Wouldn’t you be?” he sharply raises a brow.

 

“If Pansy left me behind?  Sure.  But I know she’s my bestie and that we have each other’s backs.  If she left, she’d take me with her.  I’d do the same.”  Astoria adds with emphasis, “Theodore should have done the same for you if he were a _true_ friend.”

 

Draco scowls, more petulantly than a seventeen-year-old should and Astoria finds it rather endearing.  “Fuck him.  He’s a prick.”

 

“Yes, forget him,” Astoria agrees, “Theodore is a horrible friend and a selfish one at that.”

 

“Damn right,” says Draco, crossing his arms indignantly.

 

“I know it won’t be easy to forget him,” Astoria begins, subtly inching her way closer on the bench, “He’s been your best mate since you were little, yes?”

 

“Since we were seven,” he admits, perhaps a bit sadly.

 

“You know what makes it easier to forget?” Astoria asks, now shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

 

He turns to her suspiciously. “What?”

 

Astoria opens one panel of her cloak to reveal a silver flask wedged into the inside pocket.  “Daddy says Ogden’s Finest is the best cure for things we’d rather forget.”

 

Draco smirks slightly.  “Mr. Greengrass is a wise man.”

 

Astoria mirrors his smirk.  “How about we skip the rest of the school day and help you forget Theodore Nott, hm?”

 

 

~//~

 

Destiny is cruel.  Desire, even more so.  And it is not surprising to Astoria that Despair is Desire’s antithetical twin.

 

Ever since the first time she stepped into Malfoy Manor, Astoria has known what it is to desire things that she does not have. She wanted all the opulent riches that adorned the gilded halls of that grand house, all the esteem and admiration that went along with Having It All.

 

And when the great house of Malfoy fell, when Death and Destruction left their soot black stains upon them like so many pureblood families, one beautiful thing remained within the curse-scorched corridors of the somber house that once stood like a gleaming, marble palace – one thing that Astoria wanted more than ever before.

 

Draco Malfoy. 

 

There is no greater despair than to love what you cannot have.

 

 

Chaos erupts around her as Hogwarts burns and crumbles. Astoria refuses to leave with the other Slytherins, despite Pansy beseeching her to come away, yanking on her arm hard enough to bruise diligently moisturized, delicate skin.

 

“I’m not leaving without Draco. We don’t leave our friends behind,” Astoria insists, breaking free of Pansy’s vice-like grip.

 

“Don’t be stupid,” says Pansy, “He would never do the same for you.”

 

But Astoria is already running. She’s not brave like a Gryffindor. She won’t stay to fight against Lord Voldemort, or even against the Order of the Phoenix. But if she has to battle a proverbial dragon to rescue her would-be prince from a besieged castle, she will not be an idle princess.  Slytherin ambition, through and through.

 

She finds Draco in a third floor corridor with Vincent and Gregory.  Anguish and dread carve deep lines into his sweaty brow.  “We have to get out of here!  Quickly!” she calls to them desperately, though she really only needs Draco to escape, “The Slytherins took a secret tunnel to safety!  Come with me!”

 

“We’re gonna end this thing and glory will be ours,” says Vincent, looking positively maniacal.

 

“Help us find Potter.  We’re gonna deliver him to The Dark Lord,” says Gregory, looking so sure of himself that Astoria just has to balk at their plan.

 

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says throwing her hands up in exasperation, “You’re crazy!”

 

“Astoria,” says Draco, and her little heart feels caught in her throat – it is the first time he’s ever called her by her given name. “You’re not safe here. Leave us.  Save yourself.”  There is no hope left in his eyes – only terror.  He slips through a door that disappears soon after, and Astoria knows that he won’t come out of there alive.

 

She screams in anguish as she pounds on the blank wall where a door had been seconds ago.  She slides to the floor and buries her face in her hands, but no tears come. Not even when her perfectly manicured nails claw into her face. 

 

After having bonded over shared firewhiskey for months, the day that Astoria ceases to be just _Greengrass_ , the day she can finally say that Draco considers her a friend, is the day she loses him.  And only when she loses him, does she realize how much she is in love with him. She has no way of knowing that it won’t be the only time she’ll lose him. 

 

Astoria has felt pain like this before, but never quite like this.  It tears through her more sharply than the pain of betrayal at daddy’s hands.   It consumes her more completely than the pain of losing him two months ago to the demons of addiction – the demons that nearly bankrupted them. Losing Draco leaves her feeling more hollow than Blaise ever did.

 

This is the despair of a broken heart.

 

And all Draco had to do was leave.

 

He could have done all manner of horrid things that boys do to break girls’ hearts – he could have rejected her love, betrayed her, disrespected her, disappointed her, physically and emotionally abused her – and Astoria would not have been surprised.  She would have expected it from him.  But they didn’t even get that far.  Destiny tore him from her fingers and left her in the arms of Despair before Draco even got the chance to hurt her properly.

 

 

~//~

 

 

It gives Astoria little solace when she discovers that the Malfoys escaped from the final battle with their lives, because Draco is taken to Azkaban.  Draco would likely still be there for a long time, were it not for Harry Potter’s testimony and a great deal of Malfoy gold.

 

But even when Draco is released, he’s not the same person. He won’t take visitors. Not even his closest friends. When Astoria writes to him, her owl Tiffany returns hours later, still with the same parchment in her talons. The pictures she has seen of Draco in the _Daily Prophet_ are of a mere ghost – a phantom trace of the person that was once a Slytherin prince. She should be disgusted, but the empathy she feels makes her hurt more, which in turn makes her love him more. She knows what it feels like to be gouged out by despair.  And part of her thinks that she could somehow make him feel less empty, if only he’d let her in.

 

Similar to the way he disappeared from her through the vanishing door, so had Draco evaporated from existence following the trials.  Nobody speaks of the Malfoys in what remains of the few respectablepeople in the pureblood elite.

 

Which is why it comes as a shock to hear Draco’s name on Endora’s lips behind a closed door, nearly a year after the war.

 

“You’ve been friends with Draco since you were a child – It is a perfect match, really,” says mother, sounding rather pleased with herself.

 

“That is exactly why it is the _worst_ match in history,” says Daphne. Her tone rises exponentially with each word of protest.  “It would be like marrying my brother.  I will never love him any other way.  Ever.”

 

“Daphne, you have a responsibility to this family,” their mother replies sternly, “It matters little whether or not you have any romantic inclinations towards Draco.”  She goes on with a grandiose air, “We need to join our families if either is going to survive.  The integrity of the Sacred Twenty-Eight is at stake.  As it is, so many of us died in the war and so few are left.  And those of us that remain are barely hanging on by a thread.”

 

“Pardon my language, mother, but that is complete bollocks,” says Daphne.  Astoria gasps behind her hand as her ear presses more firmly to the closed door. Their mother gasps quite audibly as well. “Don’t try to paint this as some sort of act of duty to pureblood wizarding kind.  You’re selling me off just like you sold everything we own.”

 

Their mother retorts sharply, “Young lady, do not pretend to refuse this union as a simple act of righteous defiance. You think I don’t know about you and Vaisey?  Do you honestly think a mere Ministry parchment pusher is good enough for you? He’ll never be able to take care of you the way the Malfoys can.  You’d marry for love, and then where will you be when the love runs cold? You’ll be _poor_ , Daphne.  Living in a little flat in dirty London with his spawn pawing at you for scraps of food.”

 

Daphne scoffs, “Don’t be so dramatic, mother. Vaisey does well enough at the Ministry. And I’ve no desire to have children.” She adds airily, “Besides, I won’t have time for them when I start my own business.”

 

Their mother heaves a resigned sigh. After the smoke and drama has cleared, the truth comes out.  “Daphne, my hands are tied.  When your father died, he left us with an enormous debt to the Malfoys.  And the Malfoys themselves are hurting financially. With your dowry, Cissy can pay to have Lucius released from Azkaban.  With Lucius out of prison, their assets will no longer be frozen. We will have paid our debt and you will have a secure, comfortable life as Draco’s wife.”

 

 _Draco’s wife_. The words send Astoria into a panic. Draco should be hers. This is the way _her_ fairy story is supposed to be written.

 

That’s all Astoria needs to hear before storming in, eyes fit to cry.  “You can’t marry Draco, Daphne!  You absolutely can’t!”

 

Daphne puts her feet up on the couch and lounges back. “Fine by me.  You hear that mother?  Even Tori thinks it’s an awful idea.”

 

“Mother, don’t make Daphne marry Draco, please!” Astoria implores.  “Let _me_ marry him.”

 

Their mother huffs, gloved fingers clutching pearls, “You’re sixteen.  A mere child. The Ministry won’t allow such a union.”

 

“Then arrange an extended engagement,” Astoria says desperately, “Please, mother.”

 

It only takes a few thoughtful moments for mother to agree with a shrewd grin.  And when she does, Endora Greengrass seals Astoria’s fate – or doom, depending on how one wants to look at it.

 

 

~//~

 

 

Astoria’s fairy tale dreams have come true.

 

At seventeen, she is the quintessential princess bride. There are genuine Austrian crystals gleaming in her veiled tiara that sits atop her impeccably coifed blond hair. Her gown is made of the finest hand-embroidered silk brocade, hewn by a master Parisian couturier – Draco had carefully selected the gown himself, along with his own bespoke formal suit and the robes of all fifteen members of the wedding entourage, which should have been a glaring red flag for Astoria.  She thought his insistence on Dior was just a matter of his demand for quality – not any indication of his growing obsession with high fashion.

 

It seems that all of British wizarding high society have come to the wedding, thus leaving Narcissa Malfoy assured of her return to power as queen of them all.  And Endora Greengrass could not be more proud of her daughter, if not anxious to be relieved of the burden of providing for her.  The press is there to document the entire lavish affair.

 

What is more conspicuous than who is in attendance, is who is absent.  As to be expected, the recently departed relations are sorely missed, save for a few who would have surely made a scene had they lived through the war to attend, most notably Draco’s aunt Bellatrix.  But they hadn’t accounted for the glaring imbalance in the wedding entourage – four brides’ maids and three groomsmen – one is missing.  An uneven number could be interpreted as bad luck, but Astoria never put any weight in numerology.  The best man hasn’t arrived.  He probably isn’t coming at all.  Astoria is a little too pleased about this.

 

“I told you he wouldn’t show up. Theodore always disappoints you,” Astoria mutters quietly as the officiant blathers on and on about commitment and honor.

 

Draco shrugs, unconcerned.  “Groomsmen don’t do anything anyway.”

 

“Well, if you ask me,” she begins, but is promptly cut off.

 

“I’m not,” Draco accentuates that last word and smiles tightly.

 

Astoria rolls her heavily lined eyes, continuing anyway, “He’s a terrible friend.  I’m just saying.”

 

She then pretends to hang onto every word of the officiant’s speech.  He talks about love and friendship and _blah blah blah_. The vows Draco and Astoria exchange are meaningless.  Draco doesn’t love her.  Astoria knows this. But with time, perhaps he’ll grow to love her.  Until then, Astoria just wants to get to the part where Draco slides that fat diamond ring on her little finger.  Then the deal will be done. Then she’ll be a true princess.

 

 

 

~//~

 

 

The second red flag that Astoria misses comes later that night. 

 

After the pomp and circumstance of their elaborate wedding, Draco and Astoria retire to their quarters at Malfoy Manor. Astoria is prepared to consummate the marriage with her very own handsome prince – she’d had plenty of practice with one or two of Draco’s groomsmen in the past. 

 

Draco comes in from the balcony after smoking a cigarette and Astoria is lounging on the plush, white linens like the princess and the pea, squirming anxiously, trying to get comfortable. Even though she knows what she’s doing, she’s never so much as kissed Draco before the dry one that sealed their vows. And she wants to get it right.

 

Draco sits at the foot of the bed, wrapped in a thick flannel dressing gown.  “Nervous?” he asks.

 

Astoria smiles weakly.  “Maybe a little.”

 

He worries his bottom lip and says, “We don’t have to do this tonight.  I know it’s a bit weird – this whole arranged marriage thing.  We can take it slow.”

 

Astoria sighs with relief.  “I think that would be wise.”

 

“I’m glad you agree,” says Draco with a soft, genuine smile.  “Goodnight, Astoria.” He moves to kiss her on the cheek, and then leaves the room.

 

Astoria sits in her enormous bed all alone for a good ten minutes, during which Draco never returns.  She mutters to herself with disappointment, “Well, this sucks…”

 

 

And so it goes every single lonely night for their first year of marriage.  Astoria tells the house elf to inform Draco that she is ready for bed. Draco comes in, sometimes still dressed in one of his many designer suits, kisses her on the cheek, says goodnight, and leaves the room.  Draco never returns to the bed that they are supposed to share.  Astoria sometimes sees him at breakfast the next morning. Sometimes Draco sleeps in. Sometimes Astoria sleeps in, especially if she’s been out late with her friends.

 

One evening in February, a few weeks after their first anniversary, Draco kisses Astoria goodnight.  Only this time, his lips finally meet hers. He tastes of cigarettes and brandy and all of her hopes incarnate.  She reaches up to thread her fingers in his hair to keep him there, but he pulls away.

 

“I love you, Draco,” she whispers breathlessly with quiet desperation.

 

Draco smiles weakly and says, “I think you love the idea of me more than you love me.”

 

Like he always does, he leaves. But this time, he leaves Astoria feeling emptier than ever.

 

The next morning, Draco isn’t at breakfast. He isn’t at lunch, nor at dinner. That night, Draco doesn’t come into their bedroom to kiss her goodnight, nor does he come to kiss her any night after that, for days. 

 

Astoria has to contend with the reality that Draco has left her.  Again.

 

 

~//~

 

 

“Where is he?” Astoria demands, storming into Daphne’s office, despite the fact that she’s in the middle of a meeting with clients.

 

“Tori, I’m busy.  I’ll owl you later.” Daphne dismisses her.

 

“No, you owe me, Daph,” Astoria insists, “Where is he?”

 

Daphne swiftly rises from her seat and takes her sister firmly by the arm, never ceasing to smile as she whispers, “I don’t owe you shit. But if you sit in the waiting room until I’m done here, maybe we can talk.”

 

Astoria yanks her arm out of Daphne’s grasp. “I’m sick of waiting. I’ve been waiting night after night for Draco to come home,” she declares petulantly, “And I know that you know where he is.  I’m his bloody wife and you owe me an explanation.”

 

The couple sitting in Daphne’s office are wide-eyed and scandalized by this point.  “I’ll be right back,” she tells them, “Have a look at the binder on destination weddings – I think Bali might be your style.”

 

“Congratu-fucking-lations,” Astoria says to them bitterly, “You’re a gorgeous couple.”

 

Daphne yanks her out of the office and into the empty reception area.  “I don’t know where he is, Tori,” she begins irately, “But it took you damn long enough to realize he was gone.  Honestly, you should’ve seen that he was already halfway out the door ages ago.”

 

Astoria collapses into the vacant receptionists’ seat - the one that she should have been occupying at nine this morning.  She doesn’t have to work, but she’s been so bored that she’d been playing receptionist for her sister’s party planning business twice a week.  She sobs into her hands, never spilling any real tears. “What did I do to make him leave?”

 

Daphne sighs sadly and rests a hand on Astoria’s shoulder.  “You didn’t do anything to make him leave.  Your only mistake was caring about him too much.”

 

“How could I _not_ love him?  He’s everything I’ve ever wanted,” Astoria laments.

 

That’s when all of Daphne’s sympathy flies out the window with the owl post.  “All you ever wanted was a gay trophy husband?” she scoffs incredulously, “Please, Tori. Spare me. You brought this upon yourself when you entered an arranged marriage with him.”

 

Deep down inside, Astoria has always known this about Draco – that he was never going to sleep with her or kiss her or love her in the way that she wanted because he just wasn’t made that way. She was desperate enough to believe that he could change – maybe he wasn’t interested in women, but could find it in himself to try for the sake of their marriage.

 

“He’s with Theodore – isn’t he?” Astoria spits it out like an accusation.

 

“He’s always with Theodore,” Daphne sighs and rolls her eyes as if it should be obvious.

 

“Vaisey arranged a portkey for them – didn’t he?” she glares at her sister as all the pieces fall into place.

 

“Look, Tori,” Daphne begins unapologetically and then admits, “Draco went to Morocco.  You’d be stupid to follow him.  Just let him go.  Let him do his thing. He’ll come back when he’s ready to grow up.”

 

“And what am I supposed to do while my husband is off in a foreign country fucking some fellow who didn’t even have the decency to show up to our wedding?  Hm?” Astoria crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows expectantly.

 

Daphne shrugs absently, having taken to sorting through the letters in the inbox.  “I don’t know.  Go shopping.”

 

 

~//~

 

Cavalli, Gucci, Versace, Fendi, Prada – these are the names of Astoria’s new best friends.  They follow her everywhere.  They have her back when she’s navigating the concrete jungle of the cities where she collects more famous label friends.  London, Paris, New York, Milan.  Her Italian friends are on her arm, escorting her to the parties of the young, pureblood, idle rich – The Parkinsons, The Zabinis, The Flints, The Warringtons. Her Italian friends worship at her feet and dance with her at the hottest muggle nightclubs. Astoria watches Pansy, Tracey, and Millie going home at the end of the night with different gorgeous men every weekend.  And Astoria goes home alone. Her lover is always waiting for her there.

 

He’s got a square build. He’s smooth.  He’s foreign – from Bombay.  He’s expensive.  When her lips press against his round mouth, he makes her forget that she ever loved Draco Malfoy. At least until she wakes up the next morning and her sapphire blue lover has left her with nothing but a nasty hangover.

 

This is Astoria Malfoy’s life. This is the life of a pureblood princess.  She fills her closets with designer clothes and fills her body with top shelf martinis, but she feels no less empty.  She may have married well before any of her friends, but she is not really ahead of the game. She feels more like Lucius and Narcissa’s frivolous daughter than a proper wife.  Draco’s parents could hardly expect anything more from her – she is a teenager, after all – with no husband around to whip her into shape.

 

With each passing year, each anniversary that Draco spends conspicuously estranged from his wife, Astoria is the one that must bear the brunt of Lucius and Narcissa’s disappointment.  It’s entirely unfair. 

 

It is during breakfast one morning when Narcissa casually makes a suggestion over a soft-boiled egg.  “You’re still young, Astoria – Perhaps you should think about having your marriage annulled.”  Astoria is twenty.  She hasn’t seen her husband in years.  They never consummated their marriage.  Perhaps Narcissa is right.  “You could start anew. Find yourself another husband. There are still many eligible, pureblood bachelors to be had.”

 

Leave it to Lucius to cut through Narcissa’s diplomacy with unfiltered vitriol.  “She’s never going to simply leave, Cissy.  She’s far too comfortable – spending our son’s money on booze and garish muggle garments – out all night cavorting with blood-traitor filth, besmirching the Malfoy name. The only way to coax a leech to detach is to burn it.”

 

Astoria narrows her eyes at the bitter old man sitting across the table – the man who was once the handsome, regal, elegant pinnacle of pureblood high society.  Now he’s nothing but a rapidly deteriorating recluse that mumbles rancorously to himself.  “Are you going to burn me, Lucius?  Have you forgotten that it was the gold from my dowry that afforded you your freedom?”

 

He mumbles something mostly unintelligible about rather being left to rot in Azkaban than to watch his _poofter of a son piss away his life_. Then he breaks into a hacking cough. Narcissa flies to his side and rubs his back soothingly.  Lucius’ hand comes away from his mouth bloody.  Narcissa does that pearl-clutching thing that Astoria’s mother does.

 

“Fetch the healer, Astoria.  Quickly, my dear.”

 

 

~//~

 

Draco returns to Malfoy Manor. Not for his wife. Not even for his mother. But to watch his father suffer and die over the course of six days.  Over those six days, Lucius spouts his hateful, blood-tinged words at Draco.

 

“You’re a disgrace.”  Astoria listens in the corridor through the door to Lucius’ bedchamber as he coughs and spits venom at his only son.  “You have ruined the great House of Malfoy with your indolence, selfishness, and shameless buggery.  You would bend over like a two-knut whore and let the Nott boy fuck you blind rather than uphold your duties as a husband and son. You’re disgusting. I should disinherit you as Thaddeus had disinherited Theodore.  Believe me, I would, if all of my wealth would not die with me.  Or is that what you want?  Do you want your mother to be left with nothing?  Do you, you ungrateful brat?”

 

Astoria’s stomach clenches uncomfortably. She can only imagine how horrible Draco feels.  When she tries to offer him some sort of comfort, he shrinks away from her as if he is repulsed. “Not now, Astoria,” he says as he bushes past her quickly down the corridor.  So Astoria gives him space.  She gives all of them space – This is something that the Malfoys need to do in private.

 

Draco is packing his bags again before the white funerary flowers that enshrine Lucius’ portrait have even begun to wilt, just days after his father finally passes on.  Astoria barely catches Draco on the way out.

 

“Aren’t you tired, Draco?” she asks softly, standing in the doorway of his vast walk-in closet as he reverently folds a crisp Lorenzini and places it in a Louis Vuitton trunk.

 

“Tired?” Draco repeats, never looking up from his task.

 

“Yes, tired.  Of everything.  Of Theodore. Of running,” she says.

 

“I’m tired of this conversation,” he mutters distractedly, debating between two silk neckties that he holds in each hand.

 

Astoria dislodges from the doorframe and approaches on her Prada sling-backs.  She gently takes one of the ties from him.  “This one. It’s more versatile. You can wear it with any color suit.”

 

Draco nods in agreement and carefully drops the tie into the trunk. 

 

“Draco, I’m tired,” says Astoria, resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder, who still won’t look at her. On heels, she now stands taller than him, which is more a testament of how much time has passed than of the height of her shoes.  It’s fitting. They’ve never seen eye-to-eye.

 

“Take a nap,” Draco suggests, not kindly, “Take a long, long nap.”

 

Astoria had never been deterred by the rudeness of any boy her whole life.  She doesn’t let her husband’s cruelty get to her – at least not outwardly. She sighs, rests her chin on Draco’s shoulder, and whispers somberly, “I’m tired of waiting for you to grow up. You’re twenty-three.”

 

“What makes you think I’m not grown up?” asks Draco, sounding only mildly offended as he ponders a pair of diamond cufflinks.

 

Astoria doesn’t answer.  She shouldn’t have to.  She presses her case as she subtly presses herself against Draco’s back and slides her hand down the front lapel of his black suit. “Stop being such a spoiled little boy,” she says as her long fingers glide over the pocket.

 

She nuzzles her face against the rich fabric of his jacket and silently drinks in Draco’s essence – he smells of cigarettes and coffee and she wants to keep his scent inside of her for as long as she can.

 

“Be a man,” she quietly commands. Her hand wanders down to Draco’s belt. “Put a baby in me.” She lets her manicured fingertips graze the front of Draco’s trousers.

 

He doesn’t flinch.  But he also doesn’t react.  And it is this complete lack of response that kills Astoria.

 

“Do you think I should take the Dior set or the Burberry set?” Draco asks, holding up the cufflinks in question, acting like Astoria hadn’t just copped a feel.

 

Perhaps her ego is wounded, but that’s not what hurts the most.  She feels like she doesn’t exist.  Like she’s a ghost from which Draco is seeking fashion advice.  She pulls away from her husband and, as if she’s a silent specter, the white carpet swallows up the sound of her slowly retreating footsteps.

 

She is reaching for an abandoned half-filled martini glass on her bedside table when she hears Draco calling from the enormous closet.  Her heart does that little skip its prone to do when Draco says her name.

 

“Astoria,” he says, then peeks his head out of the closet.

 

She whips around, nearly upsetting the glass. “Yes, darling?” She had never called him this before, but it felt natural slipping out of her mouth.

 

“I will… Eventually,” he says, flashing a very small, genuine smile – a smile that could almost be interpreted as sympathetic. “I know it’s something I have to do. Just… Not now.”

 

Astoria mirrors his grave smile. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

 

 

~//~

 

 

Narcissa Malfoy hasn’t been the same since Lucius died.

 

Astoria can only imagine the pain that her mother-in-law suffers.  When Draco had left Astoria after only a year of marriage, she had felt a void inside her. The despair that Narcissa feels after permanently losing her husband of thirty years must be a hundred times more devastating. 

 

The vast house had always felt empty, even when the entire family, however small, had been in residence.  With Draco gone and Lucius dead, it feels like a tidy, immaculately kept museum that awaits visitors who never come.  It is unlike Greengrass Manor, which had always felt neglected.  

 

It is the third time that Narcissa is absent from breakfast that Astoria becomes concerned.  She ventures to the East wing of the house where her in-laws had their private quarters and finds Narcissa in her bedroom with the duvet drawn up to her nose, staring up blankly at the white canopy.

 

“Are you ill, my lady?” Astoria asks softly, “Shall I fetch the healer?”

 

Narcissa replies, her voice wet with tears that had been flowing steadily for days, “There are some ailments that no healer can ameliorate.”

 

Astoria nods quietly with understanding. “Do you need anything? Tea?  You must eat, Narcissa, or your sickness of the soul will become one of the body.”

 

“Time,” Narcissa breathes out. “All I need is time.”

 

Another three days pass and Astoria decides that Narcissa has starved herself enough.  She won’t get out of bed, but maybe she’ll take some sustenance from the safety of her mourning cocoon.

 

Astoria floats a chair to Narcissa’s bedside and rests a plate of cut-up red apples on the nightstand.  “Tell me about him,” she says, “Tell me about how you met Lucius. Was he handsome?” She takes a bite of apple for herself and offers a little wedge to her mother-in-law.

 

“Devastatingly,” says Narcissa, before nibbling on the piece of proffered apple.

 

 

This is how they live for weeks. Astoria feeds Narcissa apples in bed while Narcissa regales her with a gripping, epic tale of love and pain. But Narcissa is no closer to venturing from her bedroom than she was weeks ago, and Astoria knows it’s time to owl Draco.

 

 

_My Dearest Draco,_

_I hope this owl finds you in the best of spirits._

_I wish that I were bringing you good tidings, but I am afraid that I bear grave news._

_Your mother is not well and I fear that this is the beginning of a steady decline. She is weak, can barely keep down any food, and is unable to venture out of her bed without assistance. I had suspected it was all secondary to her grief, but even the healers agree that it is more than that. However, all the tests have left us without answers._

_Please come home. Narcissa needs you. I need you.  I cannot care for her alone._

_Yours truly,_

_Astoria_

 

 

When Draco comes home, the sight of his ailing mother brings him to his knees at her bedside, and there is where he stays for days. Eventually, Astoria convinces Draco to take shifts with her.  She doesn’t mind. She had grown close to her mother-in-law over these past weeks and she cherishes every story.  She still brings apples – they are the only things that Narcissa manages to keep in her stomach.  So Draco has the biggest, sweetest apples delivered from New Zealand – Only the best is good enough for his mother.

 

This is the longest that Draco has ever been home. Astoria wonders if he’s home for good, because he’s started kissing her goodnight again. She’s not foolish enough to hope that Draco will ever sleep in the bed they were meant to share. But it is leagues better than nothing at all.

 

One afternoon, Astoria comes in to Narcissa’s room with a plate of apples and a cup of chamomile on a tray. “Go have your tea, Draco. I’ll help your mother with hers.”

 

“It’s alright.  I’m not that hungry,” Draco says, reaching for one of the apple slices on the plate.

 

Astoria swiftly moves the tray out of Draco’s reach. “These are for your mother. The elf made your favorite. Cucumber sandwiches.” She moves to the other side of the bed and sets down the tray on the thick duvet next to Narcissa.  “You should eat,” she encourages her mother-in-law gently.

 

“Stay for a while,” Narcissa delicately requests with a soft smile, “I want to talk to you both.”

 

Astoria and Draco exchange concerned looks.

 

Narcissa extends a hand each for Draco and Astoria to take, and they oblige her.  “If I pass on, it will be only you two, carrying on the Malfoy legacy.  I know I have asked a lot of you, Draco.  And you have sacrificed so much for this family, Astoria. But I have one final request of you both. Do not let the Malfoys fade into extinction.  Safeguard it’s continuance, and then you may follow your hearts, however far apart they may lead you.”

 

“It would be a great honor to provide Draco with an heir,” says Astoria with a small, gracious bow of her head. She glances up at Draco, who looks rigid in his seat.

 

Narcissa flashes a pointed look at her son, but never changes the gentle tone of her voice.  “By any means necessary.  And soon. I would like to see my grandson.”

 

Draco rises and starts pacing the room slowly, nervously raking his fingers through his hair.  “What if our child is a girl?  Do we have to keep on trying for a boy?”

 

Narcissa smiles softly.  “That is up to you. I will be happy with any grandchildren you bear me, of course.  But ultimately, the Malfoy name will die with you unless you produce an heir.”

 

She manages to leave the decision in Draco’s hands, while not giving him a choice at all.  Such is Narcissa’s nature.  Astoria just has to stop to admire her mother-in-law for remaining so diplomatic on the surface.  Really, Narcissa is making a clear decree.

 

 

Astoria smiles softly to herself. She thinks that she’s getting everything she wants. She has her husband, and soon, she will have a child – a complete family. And when Narcissa passes on, Astoria will become the matriarch – the queen.

 

However, accomplishing this _by all means necessary_ will be far from pleasant.

 

 

~//~

 

“He’s ready for you,” says Theodore, breathless, as he opens the door between the adjoining bedrooms and closes it behind him.

 

Just enough of a smug grin plays upon his wet, reddened lips to make Astoria want to give him a backhanded smack across the face. When he dabs the corner of his mouth with his shirtsleeve, Astoria thinks he’s not so subtly hinting at what he had just done with her husband.

 

“Get out.  Leave. Your job is done,” says Astoria, shortly, barely able to contain the rage that’s bubbling beneath the surface.

 

Even though she had sanctioned this, she doesn’t have to like it.  And she absolutely does not have to be courteous to Draco’s lover, even though he’s an integral part of this _by all means necessary_ plan.

 

“I should probably hang around in case he, erm… loses his resolve,” Theodore suggests. 

 

Astoria snaps, “I won’t have you waiting in the wings like some bloody fluffer on the set of a pornographic film.” She glares daggers at Theodore as she removes her dressing gown with superfluous force to reveal a delicate, flesh-colored negligee.  She huffs indignantly as she throws the robe at Theodore, “I’m quite capable.”

 

“So I’ve heard.”  Theodore catches the garment and eyes her up and down slowly, still smirking subtly. “You know, this doesn’t have to be an unpleasant experience for you both.  I’m bisexual.” His smirk goes from subtle to downright lascivious as he drawls smoothly, “Are you quite sure you want me to leave?”

 

Astoria makes a dramatic coquettish show as she bites the tip of a varnished finger and bats her eyelashes. But her words are sarcastic and bitter. “Perhaps you _should_ stay, Theodore.  Join us in the bedroom. I’m sure Draco would be _thrilled_ to watch the man he loves fucking the wife which he _loathes_.  It wouldn’t be unpleasant _at all_ for me to watch my husband’s lover suck him off just to get him hard enough to consummate his marriage.”  She suddenly drops the act and hisses, “Are you bloody _high_ , Theodore?”

 

“Actually, I am,” Theodore says with a giggle. “Draco and I took some Ecstasy. I’d offer you some if you weren’t trying to get knocked up.”

 

Astoria grabs Theodore by the arm and marches him to the other door, through which she sends him into the corridor. She doesn’t raise her voice, lest she alarm her husband.  “Get out of my house. Don’t come back. And for the record, even if I didn’t hate your fucking guts, I’d never let you touch me.  I have always found you utterly _repulsive_.”

 

Theodore mutters, shrugging haughtily, “Well, Draco always seems to find me irresistible.”  It earns him a face-full of door.

 

 

 

In order to conceive a potential heir, Astoria has the worst sex of her life, which is saying a lot, considering her barely repressed memories of incestuous abuse.  It’s awkward and unromantic and utilitarian.  Draco won’t even kiss her or offer her any sort of tenderness. He makes her feel like an inanimate vessel in which to deposit his sperm – he might as well have wanked off into a cup.

 

When the ordeal is over, Astoria rolls over and hugs her knees to her chest, wishing she could just fold in on herself and disappear.  Even though she’s filled with her husband’s seed, she feels more hollow and empty than ever before.

 

And in the months to come, even though her womb is filled with life, she feels dead inside.  She becomes increasingly despondent as her belly grows. As she sits by Narcissa’s bedside, only half listening to her stories, she has daydreams of dying in childbirth – a self-fulfilling prophecy, she hopes darkly.  She has nightmares while she sleeps in her empty bed - of Draco leaving her, even though he’s in the room next door.  As it is, he’s barely around.  He hasn’t run off with Theodore to some far away Neverland where they are forever reckless boys.  They do a fine job of being reckless boys right here at home.

 

Endora comes to visit more often these days, even though it seems like such a bother for her.  Astoria wouldn’t take care of herself otherwise. Her mother makes sure she eats properly and takes prenatal potions that encourage the development of a baby boy. Daphne decorates the nursery while Astoria elevates her swollen ankles and faintly listens to her sister suggest baby names – ghastly names that she no doubt has plucked from the muggle novels she still reads.

 

“What about Theodore Laurence?” she proposes.

 

Astoria wants to throw up, and it has nothing to do with morning sickness.

 

The only reprieve that Astoria has from her despair comes when the healer informs her that she is indeed carrying a boy. She’s happy because Draco and Narcissa are over the moon, and it feels like she’s finally done something useful in her life.  But Astoria knows that once she has served her purpose, she will be discarded.  And so her joy is fleeting. 

 

Her despair turns to panic when she is in her final weeks of pregnancy, for it suddenly dawns on her that she has no bloody idea how to be a mother.

 

 

~//~

 

Astoria’s tears are as rare as diamonds. She holds them greedily in the vault of her heart like a Gringotts goblin, for a lady never cries unless it is strategic. And even then, Astoria has never been able to fake it properly.  It is not that she has never felt despair.  She just doesn’t have enough tears to waste them on people like Draco.

 

She has only ever cried actual tears for her father. She cried despondently when he first left the country. She cried in pain when he made her a _fully actualized lady_ upon coming home. She cried angrily when he left again to escape his debtors.  And she cried the hardest out of grief when he was returned to her as ashes.

 

 

It is the thirteenth of September. Astoria gazes upon the face of an angel with eyes that are like tiny ice-blue jewels.  Her tears flow freely now, enough that they would make her exceedingly richer, were they made of actual gems.  When someone like Scorpius Hyperion comes into the world, the least one can do is pay homage with a few tears.  They aren’t wasted if they’re shed in joy.

 

Astoria is holding her infant son in her arms. He is a handful of minutes old, so very tiny, and so beautiful that it makes Astoria’s heart flutter with pride and adoration.  He has fallen asleep at her breast, and Endora moves to take the child away. Astoria doesn’t want to be parted from her son, but Endora insists that the boy must not be allowed to linger for too long with his mother, lest he become overly attached. The baby cries as soon as he’s taken away. 

 

The sound pulls on Astoria’s insides and makes her feel a mélange of raw emotions she’s never felt before – urgency and love and protectiveness.  She feels needed, for once.  It’s enough to pull more tears from her eyes.

 

“Scorpius needs his mummy,” she says, weakly reaching her arms out to the basinet from her bed, too exhausted from childbirth to get up. 

 

The midwife returns Scorpius to his mother despite all of Endora’s muttering about coddling and spoiling the child. But Astoria doesn’t hear any of her mother’s words, for all she hears is the sound of her darling little boy – the soft, content noises he makes as he returns to the comfort of his mother’s arms.

 

And for the first time since her father was alive, Astoria truly feels loved unconditionally.  For the first time in years, Astoria is happy. 

 

The arrival of Scorpius somehow revitalizes the manor. It feels brighter and more lived-in, less like a mausoleum.  Even Narcissa seems to benefit from her grandson’s light.  In the months after his birth, she begins to recover from her mysterious chronic illness.  By the time Scorpius is a year old, Narcissa is well enough to play with him, and soon becomes his second favorite person in the world after his mother.  Astoria doesn’t even care that her son’s second favorite person isn’t his father, nor does she care that Draco has run off again with Theodore. She doesn’t need her husband. She has her special little boy, and he is everything to her.

 

Astoria always knew her prince would come. She hadn’t expected that he would be so small and that she would love him so fiercely.


	2. Scorpius

Scorpius is four-years-old.

 

“Mummy, may I play outside?” he asks, bouncing in the doorway anxiously.

 

“It’s far too hot,” his mother answers, charming a lace fan to flutter quickly by her neck, “Your delicate skin will burn to a crisp.” She is stretched out across a lounge chair on the terrace, sunning herself in a red polka dot swimsuit.

 

Scorpius pouts as he inches his bare feet out of the shadows and onto the deliciously warm terra cotta tiles of the terrace. “Please, mum? I’ll wear lots and lots of sun cream.  And I’ll wear a hat.”

 

“Not today, darling,” she answers, not unkindly, “The sun is far too strong.  Last time you played outside in weather like this, you got a horrible heat rash. Remember?”

 

He argues, “That’s ‘cause I rolled in the grass.” Scorpius is about to promise not to roll in the grass again, but his mother cuts him off.

 

She stares pointedly at him from above the rims of her bug-eyed sunglasses and says, “Which I had precisely told you not to do, lest you aggravate your allergies, and look what happened to you. You were so itchy, I had to bathe you in oatmeal.”

 

Scorpius remembers what great fun it had been to sit in a bathtub full of warm oatmeal.  He bites back a giggle and instead frowns petulantly, pressing his case. “Gran lets me play in the sun when it’s hot.”

 

Pulling the _Narcissa card_ usually works.  But when it doesn’t, it backfires royally.

 

His mother rants, and her lace fan magically bats more wildly the more annoyed she gets.  “Gran also lets you eat too many sweets even though she knows it could cause a deadly spike in your blood sugar.  Gran also lets you ride a broom without a helmet knowing full well that the soft spot in your skull still hasn’t solidified properly.  She’s probably apt to let you run with scissors. Gran thinks she knows best, but Mummy knows better, and I am telling you _no_.”

 

Scorpius crosses his arms and sighs exasperatedly. “When is gran coming home?”

 

“She’ll be back from Nice at the end of the week.” His mother relaxes back into the chair and her fan begins to move at a more reasonable pace.

 

Scorpius strategically waits a minute or two before asking, “When’s dad coming home?”  He knows that if he asks when she’s already aggravated, he’ll have to listen to her bashing his father, which makes him terribly uncomfortable.

 

His mother heaves a long, wilting sigh. “Only Merlin knows when.”

 

He whines quietly, trying to shape his pout and the sound of his voice for maximum effect, “I’m bored, mummy. There’s nothing to do inside.”

 

His mother relents, “Oh very well. Come outside and sit under an umbrella with mummy.  I’ll read you a picture book.” She conjures a large beach umbrella with rainbow stripes and charms it to float above the lounge chair to block out the sun.

 

Scorpius comes running out onto the terrace, trying not to flinch as his bare toes burn on the hot tiles.   “Can you read _Snow White, Rose Red_?” It’s his favorite story and he still can’t believe a muggle wrote it.  Muggles weren’t supposed to know about transfiguration and potions and curses and magic.

 

His mother summons the book from Scorpius’ shelf and makes room for him to sit next to her.  But before she can read it, an owl comes swooping in and drops a scroll in her lap. She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and reads it.  It’s filled with lots of big words that Scorpius doesn’t know – he likes to think of himself as an adept reader, but these are long, odd combinations of letters. As his mother reads the letter, her brow furrows deeper and deeper, and Scorpius thinks that maybe the words are too big for even her.

 

But then she slowly rises from the lounge chair, clutching the parchment in a white-knuckle fist, and moves to the end of the terrace.  She breathes heavily, erratically, as she looks out over the great lawn. Scorpius can’t see her face, but her posture alone tells him that she is not happy about what she’s just read.

 

“Who’s it from, mummy?” he asks softly, worried.

 

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before answering calmly – so calmly that it scares him.

“It’s from your father.  And your grandmother.”

 

“What’s it say?  Are they coming home soon?”

 

She doesn’t answer.  She looks over her shoulder, forces a smile and says, “Scorpius, go to your room and close the door, please.” 

 

He thinks he sees tears shining in her eyes. That scares him the most. Mummy never cries. He leaps from the lounge chair and throws his arms around her and hugs her tightly.  She feels stiff in his little ineffectual embrace. “I love you,” he whispers. Perhaps she doesn’t hear him, for she doesn’t respond.

 

He goes to his room and closes the door even though it is the last place he wants to be.  He knows that now is not the time to be difficult.  He hears his mother screaming outside.  Startled, he rushes to the window and sees her on the terrace where he’d left her, crumpled into an anguished heap on the tiles. She is crying, still holding on to that letter.

 

“No!  No!” she screams in a drawn out cry.  “Draco, you bastard!  No!” She screams as if her pained shriek could carry across the miles and reach his father, wherever he is. The sound makes Scorpius cry in fear. He has seen his mother’s anger towards his father many times, but it is nothing like this rage – this sorrow.

 

She runs into the house and out of sight. Scorpius hops onto his big four-poster bed and clutches his teddy bear.  He hears a violent crash downstairs and portraits shouting indignantly. It is the sound of Louis the XIV furniture being upended with wrathful magic – the sound of Ming Dynasty vases shattering on marble floors with ireful resentment – the sound of Astoria Malfoy, Scorpius’ beautiful, wonderful mother, falling apart. And Scorpius is helpless to put the pieces of their shattered lives back together.

 

The next terrifying hour is punctuated with screams and the sound of things breaking that Scorpius was never allowed to touch. The interval of dreadful silence between crashes and bangs increases until the noise stops altogether. Then his mother comes into his room wearing a brocade dressing gown, somehow still looking put together with just a hint of her breakdown revealed in the strands of hair that had come loose from her up-do and a bit of smudged eye-makeup remaining on her cheek.

 

“Darling, we have to leave,” she informs him, slightly out-of-breath, “Put everything you want to take with you in a pile on the floor.  Mummy will shrink it and pack it.”

 

“Where are we going?” Scorpius asks, his eyes peeking out from behind his oversized teddy bear.

 

“Granny Endora’s house,” she says with a swish of her wand, which brings a trunk out of the closet.

 

Scorpius hates it at Granny Endora’s. It smells of mildew and there are cobwebs with big spiders everywhere.  But he knows that now is not the time to complain.  “Why are we running away, mummy?” he asks, furrowing his brow with concern.

 

She swiftly pulls clothes out of the drawers and shrinks them before throwing them into the trunk as she answers bitterly, “Because Draco doesn’t want mummy to live here anymore, and Narcissa wants to take mummy’s special little boy away from her.”

 

Scorpius finds it very worrisome that these two very important people in his life have suddenly ceased to be his father and grandmother in Astoria’s mind.  He doesn’t quite understand what is happening or why it is happening – all he knows is that his mother is frantic and it is scaring him. He’ll do anything just to make her calm down.  So he makes a pile of toys on the floor and stops asking questions.

 

 

~//~

 

 

Every time Scorpius goes away, his mother cries. She does her best to hide it. She smiles, kisses him goodbye, and tells him to eat his vegetables.  But when he puts his arms around her, she shakes almost imperceptibly in his embrace, no matter how hard he squeezes.  He tells her that he loves her and, because it always makes her giggle, he gives her a pointed look and cheekily tells her to be good when he’s gone.

 

Scorpius knows that his mother is unhappy when he spends his court-mandated time at Malfoy Manor every other week. What he doesn’t know is that, every time he leaves, Astoria feels like someone has reached into her chest, taken out her heart, and has run away with it.  For as long as he is gone, she doesn’t know how to live – she feels incomplete, like some vital part of her has been removed. 

 

 

And so their life goes for years. He spends one week in the warm nest of his mother’s arms, followed by one week being spoiled and indulged by his grandmother. Occasionally, his father will make an appearance.  Scorpius doesn’t realize at first that Astoria spends every other week slowly dying of utter despair. He becomes more and more cognizant of his mother’s pain the older he gets.  She’s in this seemingly endless cycle of alternating elation and depression, all because of him.

 

His mother and father reunite for the first time in years to bring Scorpius to Kings Cross station.  He will board the Hogwarts express, two weeks shy of his twelfth birthday.  He is incredibly excited about this.  He is looking forward to making friends and living free of his mother’s over-protective bubble. But he’ll miss the safety of her arms and the comfort of her love.

 

On platform 9 ¾, she leans down to kiss him and whispers with quiet despondency, “I feel like I’ve missed half of your life. I’m so sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry, mum,” he comforts her with a kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry I have to leave you.”  Despite all the excitement that had been building for months, reality washes over him – he doesn’t know how his mother is going to cope with this kind of separation.

 

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” she says, sniffling, “Eat your fruits and vegetables, keep out of the sun, and write to me.” He can tell that she is barely keeping herself together, with only the cold statue of his father to catch her when she falls apart.

 

When he pulls away, he sees that her cheeks are wet and she somehow still looks elegant despite it all.  He allows a little smirk to play on his lips as he says, “Be good while I’m gone, mummy.”

 

She laughs, but the tears keep coming down in earnest. “Always.”

 

Scorpius’ father pats him on the shoulder stiffly and says, “Don’t talk to anyone with the name Potter, or anyone with red hair.”

 

He doesn’t bother asking for an explanation because Scorpius has rarely obeyed what few mandates his absentee father has given him over his life.

 

 

While Scorpius is at Hogwarts devouring this new, unfettered life, Astoria is alone in her London townhouse for months on end, swallowing her sorrow.  When he visits during the winter holidays, she gives him the biggest hug.  She smells of home – the sweet fragrance of fresh lilacs, buttered toffee, and Channel No. 5.  But beneath this comforting, familiar scent is an undertone of lingering poison.

 

In the years to come, this scent will become more conspicuous and he will know it as the familiar smell of Bombay Sapphire. Because what little solace Astoria finds in absence of her _special little boy_ , comes at the bottom of a martini glass.

 

 

 

~//~

 

 

Scorpius has too much fun at school to really miss his mother.  Of course, he thinks of her.  He writes to her once a week, rambling in his messy scrawl about the excitement of Hogwarts, gushing about his new best mate, Albus Potter.  She sends him little packages of sugar-free sherbet lemons and tiny jars of homemade apple butter with her return missives.  At night, alone in his bed, is the only time he has to feel sad about being so far away from home.  He crawls into Albie’s bed whenever he worries so much about his mother that it keeps him from sleeping.  Albie never minds.

 

By the time winter holidays come, Scorpius has a new found empathy for his mother.  Now he knows what it feels like to miss somebody so much that it hurts. When he and Albus are separated, Scorpius feels incomplete.   This pain grows with each successive holiday spent apart, worsening progressively with each year.  It isn’t the joy of being with Albus that makes Scorpius realize that he’s in love with his best mate – it is the utter agony of being away from him.

 

Scorpius’ mother understands the pain of separation like no other.  Maybe because she understands it intimately, she allows Albus to visit often, even if it cuts into Scorpius’ precious time with her.  Scorpius feels guilty about it.  He knows that his mother sees so little of him.  But he justifies hurting her because he knows that she’d rather see him happy than miserable without Albus. 

 

During the summer months at home, he spends more time with Albus than his own parents.  Unseen on the rooftop of mother’s London townhouse, he and Albus spend lazy, sun-drenched hours kissing until their lips are red and his skin is burnt – because they’re much more than best mates by the time they’re fifteen.

 

 

~//~

 

Scorpius is home for Easter break.

 

He’s sitting at the kitchen island in bare feet and nothing but pajama bottoms, spreading generous amounts of mummy’s homemade apple butter on nearly charred toast. 

 

“Sweetie.”  His mother comes shuffling down in her brocade dressing gown and manages to reprimand Scorpius around a tired yawn.  “Put on a shirt and slippers.  You’ll catch your death.”

 

Scorpius shrugs.  His mother always overreacts.  “I made you coffee, mummy,” he gestures at the French press on the counter.

 

“What a darling,” she beams, “Thank you, Scorpius.” She kisses him on the cheek and he smiles proudly.  Then she presses a hand to his forehead and she gasps softly.  “Merlin’s beard, you’re hot as an oven.”

 

“Am I?” Scorpius asks with his mouth full of toast. He woke up feeling warm, but he had thought it was just the lovely Spring weather.

 

Her eyes go wide as they scrutinize Scorpius for other signs.  “You’re sweating, dear. And your color is quite off, darling. Do you feel ill?” She presses her hands to various parts of his face and neck like a healer would examine a patient.

 

“A little achy.  Probably just sore from Quidditch.  It’s nothing,” he assures her.  She’s the sort of mother that goes to pieces when her _precious boy_ gets a little scrape.

 

She frowns and her brow furrows. “I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to play on the team this year.  Your health is far too fragile for outdoor sport.”

 

Scorpius rolls his eyes.  “I’m fine, mum.  Honest.” Maybe he is a bit more tired than usual, but he won’t admit that to his mother, lest she rush him to St. Mungo’s.

 

“Perhaps a day of rest is in order. Get into bed and Mummy will bring you more toast and tea.”

 

He figures he’ll humor his mother until the afternoon. But after lying in bed for an hour, the fever and the muscle aches hit him hard.  Scorpius can no longer deny that he has the flu. By the next day, he’s throwing up everything he ate the day before.  And the day after that, he can’t even think about eating – but at least he’s not spending hours kneeling at the toilet, not that he has any energy to get out of bed. By the fourth day, he manages to eat pieces of apple that his mother feeds to him by his bedside, but he still feels like utter rubbish.

 

Spring holiday is pretty much a bust, and Scorpius is not happy about it at all.  He spends all day in bed while his mother fusses over him.  And when she’s not fussing over him, she’s sitting on the armchair in his bedroom as he sleeps, waiting for the chance to fuss over him some more.

 

Two days before he’s supposed to return to school, his mother drops a bomb on him.

 

“I can’t send you back to school. Even if you were to get better by tomorrow, you could still be contagious.  And it would be unethical to let you spread this around to your classmates.”

 

“But mum,” Scorpius whines petulantly, “It’s just the flu.  I probably picked it up from one of my classmates anyway.  You’re not seriously keeping me from school just for the flu.” He’s not particularly anxious to return to the rigorous fifth-year Hogwarts curriculum.  But he is quite anxious to be reunited with Albus.

 

“I’m not sure this is the flu, darling,” she says gravely.  “I’ve called the healer. She’ll be here shortly.”

 

Scorpius’ illness would not have alarmed anyone who was sane – school age children are always catching viruses, especially teenagers who do a lot of snogging – but his mother is particularly worried. Scorpius’ symptoms are reminiscent of Narcissa’s mysterious illness that had lasted for almost two years and had nearly killed her.

 

The healer takes samples and runs diagnostic spells, but comes up with nothing.  It isn’t a virus – at least not one she is familiar with.  She prescribes nutrient-rich potions, bed rest, and a bland diet, leaving Scorpius’ mother no less worried than she’d been before, much to his annoyance.

 

 

On the day that Scorpius should have been returning to school, Albus stops by with his family before heading to Kings Cross station.

 

“I’ll see you as soon as you’re better,” Albie assures him before kissing his forehead. 

 

Scorpius hooks an arm around him and keeps him close. He knows that once he lets go, Albus will leave him behind and the hundreds of miles that will soon separate them will feel like a death sentence. 

 

“I don’t know how I’m going to get better without you,” Scorpius says weakly, his cheeks wet with tears, “I’m going to miss you so much.”

 

“I’ll miss you too.  I wish I could stay,” Albus whimpers and pouts.

 

Albus’ mother’s voice carries all the way up from the foyer downstairs.  “Don’t get too close, Albie, or you’ll catch it and spread whatever it is all over school!” That woman must have eyes everywhere.

 

“I’m not, mum!” Albus insists, even as he presses himself closer to Scorpius.

 

Scorpius giggles at his boyfriend’s sneaky defiance. “Can I have a proper kiss? Just in case I die?” He’s joking, but in the back of his mind, he knows it’s a possibility, however remote.

 

“You’re not going to die, Scor,” Albie scoffs gently. “You’re going to get over this thing in a week or two and you’ll be back at school before you know it. And then I’ll give you a proper kiss.”

 

Scorpius smirks and drawls, “I want more than a kiss when I get better.”

 

Albus mirrors his smirk and brushes Scorpius’ messy fringe from his feverish forehead as he whispers, “Tell you what – When you’re well enough to come to school, maybe I’ll fuck you.”

 

Scorpius blushes and bites his bottom lip coyly. “That’s quite an incentive.”

 

Albus pulls away slowly.  “Then you’d better get some rest.  See you soon, yeah?”

 

Scorpius nods.  “I’m going to take a nap and dream of the dirty things I want you to do to me when I’m back at school.”

 

Albus smiles and kisses Scorpius on the top of his hand.  “Get well, my sweet prince. I love you.”

 

 

After a week, the sickness seems to subside. He no longer has a fever, and his muscles cease to ache.  He’s still lethargic and unable to eat anything but apples.  The potions that the healer had prescribed are the only things supplementing his diet.  Still, he’s hopeful that he will kick this thing soon. 

 

After another week, little changes. The general feeling of malaise lingers, keeping Scorpius in bed for most of the day.  By the third week, his mother sends for all of his books. And that’s when Scorpius begins to worry that his illness isn’t going away any time soon. 

 

The only good thing about being sick is not having to travel back and fourth between Malfoy Manor and the town house. He’s much more comfortable here than at the drafty, old mansion.   Gran visits several times a week to help mum tutor him.  Even his father drops by fairly regularly to check in on him, which seems to put mum in a better mood.

 

Time trudges on agonizingly slow when the miles and the months separate him from Albus.  His days are an endless bed-ridden drudgery of eating, sleeping, and lessons, punctuated by simple pleasures, like taking warm bubble baths, sketching portraits of mum, and savoring letters from Albus.  Scorpius wonders what’s worse – feeling too weak to get out of bed, or too depressed to do much of anything.  By the time May rolls around, he’s lost all hope of returning to school this semester and instead counts the days until Albus finishes the year and comes home for the summer.

 

 

When Albus finally visits at the beginning of July, it’s not the bright and happy reunion he had been imagining. Albus crumbles upon seeing him for the first time in months.  He holds Scorpius’ face in his hands and peppers his forehead and cheeks with tiny tear-dampened kisses.

 

“You look so different,” Albus says, unable to hide his alarm.

 

Scorpius has lost a lot of weight. He knows he’s more gangly and gaunt than ever, but he hadn’t realized how distressing his appearance would be. He glances away shamefully. “I’m hideous, huh?”

 

Albus shakes his head fervently. “No, no, no.  You’ll always be beautiful to me,” he insists with another shower of kisses.  “But you’re wasting away. From your letters, I had no idea how bad it was.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“It’s really not that bad,” Scorpius lies.

 

Albus sobs, unconvinced.  “My gods, Scor.  Are you dying?  How could you keep this from me?  How much time do we have?”

 

Scorpius sighs deeply and shrugs. “I have no idea. It’s a complete mystery to the healers.”

 

Albus throws his arms around Scorpius. “I don’t care what your mum says or my mum says – I’m not leaving you.” 

 

And he doesn’t, much to all of the parents’ dismay. But Scorpius plays on everyone’s sympathy and gets what he wants when he’s sick.  It is inconsequential that Scorpius doesn’t really feel like he’s dying.

 

Only when he’s with Albus, does he feel like he is truly alive.  Albus spends an entire week with Scorpius and it is the best seven days he’s had in months. At night, Albus sleeps on the couch in Scorpius’ bedroom, but usually he sneaks into his bed, where he treats those silent hours after midnight like they are their last. Albus stops avoiding Scorpius’ lips and they kiss softly until they fall asleep in a tangle of limbs.

 

Every day is perfect, until Scorpius’ mother decides that he needs some country air and plans to move them to Granny Endora’s house in Groening for the summer, far away from Albus.  Scorpius doesn’t know when he’ll see Albus again.

 

On Albus’ last night in Scorpius’ bed, he wakes up in the middle of the night to find his boyfriend curled around him, conspicuously absent of clothes.  Albus nuzzles Scorpius’ neck gently and the warmth of his breath alone makes Scorpius shudder with burgeoning need. 

 

“I want you,” Albus whispers behind Scorpius’ ear, “It’s now or never.”

 

Scorpius jokes, “You don’t want me to die a virgin, hm?”

 

It isn’t anything like he had dreamed.

 

Albus treats him like glass, but all Scorpius wants is to be ravaged.  He rolls Scorpius onto his back and unbuttons his pajamas as they kiss slowly, reverently. Albus tastes like heaven on Scorpius’ tongue – of sweat and teenage lust and salt.  Albus muses between kisses that Scorpius tastes of apples.

 

“I’m fairly certain my blood has turned into apple juice,” Scorpius jests, “I’m so fucking sick of apples.”

 

“Well I think it’s lovely,” Albus murmurs before painting a wet stripe along Scorpius’ throat, “You taste like forbidden fruit.”

 

Scorpius doesn’t want Albus to see his skeletal frame, so he hides under the darkness of the blankets. But once their bodies are in alignment, there’s no hiding the protruding bones, the withered muscle, and the hollowness of his form.  In stark contrast, Albus is the epitome of a virile teenage boy.  Quidditch has done amazing things for his body.  He is gently sculpted muscle and perfectly hewn flesh, and Scorpius can’t get enough.

 

When Albus takes him, every part of Scorpius’ atrophied body hurts.  Despite Albus’ efforts to be gentle, Scorpius’ legs feel like they could snap in half when he bends them back. His spine feels like it could break with every slow, hesitant thrust.  He loves Albus so much that he’d endure anything to be with him like this. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, but he can’t stop his tears from rolling down his temples onto the pillow. And when it’s over, when Albus lays beside him and nestles against him like they’re puzzle pieces, Scorpius feels like he could die happy.

 

 

~//~

 

 

Scorpius wonders why he isn’t dead yet.

 

The healers insist that he isn’t dying, but mum is not convinced.  Granny Endora remains hopeful that he will fully recover, though his condition hasn’t changed much. Scorpius is bored, lonely, and depressed, even when he goes back to London after a dreary summer at Greengrass Manor.

 

Sometimes he thinks he would rather be dead than endure the emptiness he feels when Albus leaves him behind for another year at Hogwarts. Albus has no idea that he is slowly gouging out Scorpius’ heart with a dessertspoon as time and distance take their toll. Albus’ letters are shorter and fewer, and reveal that he is going on with his life.  He’s working hard on his music and he’s thriving on the Slytherin quidditch team.  Scorpius knows he can’t expect Albus to stop living just because Scorpius’ life sucks. But he can’t help but feel bitter.

 

Especially when Albus tells him that he plans on going on tour next summer with his band.  Scorpius should be happy that his boyfriend is living his dream and seeing the world.  But jealousy eats away at his insides much like the disease that debilitates him.

 

Albus comes to visit over Easter break and all of Scorpius’ jealousy quickly melts away.  He’s just so happy to have this time with Albus.  They spend the day having a picnic on the living room floor in lieu of going outside, for Scorpius’ sensitivity to the sun is worse than ever. Scorpius sprawls out on a big blanket and rests his head in Albus’ lap while they feed each other apples.

 

Scorpius’ mother comes home from shopping to find them there and she has a fit for no good reason.

 

“Are you eating Scorpius’ apples, Albus?” she asks incredulously.

 

Scorpius replies for his boyfriend, who looks stunned, “Calm down, mum – I’m eating them too.  Promise.”

 

“That’s not the point.  Those apples are for you, darling.  They’re the only things you can eat without getting sick. Albus can eat anything in the house that he wants.”

 

Albus apologizes sheepishly, “Sorry. I won’t eat any more apples.”

 

So Scorpius feeds Albus vanilla ice cream and savors every luscious spoonful vicariously.  The thought of eating something creamy and cold and sweet and NOT apple is enough to make Scorpius shiver pleasantly.  Watching Albus slowly licking it off the spoon is enough to make Scorpius moan.

 

That night, Albus sleeps over, and they spend it together under the covers of Scorpius’ bed.  In the darkness, Scorpius becomes reacquainted with every part of Albus’ body.  But Scorpius is still too self-conscious to let Albus do the same.  Even still, it is absolute bliss and Scorpius savors each delightful second.  Albus falls asleep after they make love, but Scorpius feels more awake than usual – it’s as if Albus had filled him with his vitality.  So he lights a dim lamp and begins to sketch his slumbering lover, for he knows that his memories alone will not tide him over during the long months of loneliness ahead.

 

His pencil becomes dull and he has misplaced the sharpener.  He goes into his mother’s study to look for one.  Her writing desk is strewn with stationery, ink, and quills.  He pulls on the drawer and it jams, causing a thankfully capped bottle of ink to drop onto the floor.  He crawls under the desk to retrieve it and finds a wicker picnic hamper.  

 

The hamper would not normally draw Scorpius’ attention, but in light of his picnic with Albus today, it makes him stop to investigate. Perhaps they can use it for tomorrow’s picnic.  He pulls the hamper from beneath the desk and finds that it is not empty, but actually quite heavy. He opens the top to find several shiny red apples – not an unusual discovery within a picnic hamper. But along with the apples, Scorpius finds a number of glass potions bottles, each labeled with names he’s never heard of before, marked with an apothecary’s symbol for poison. At the very bottom of the basket, there is a large glass syringe half filled with milky white fluid, attached to a long needle.

 

Scorpius’ hands begin to shake as realization washes over him like a sudden flush of fever.  He drops the syringe and quickly pushes the basket under the desk after committing its contents to memory. These are very odd things for his mother to have in her possession.  

 

He creeps back into his room, careful not to wake his mother or Albus, and spends the rest of the night searching through all of his potions books.  The names on the bottles are not things found in school texts.  But he finds them in a very old book he’d taken from the Malfoy Manor library years ago, in a chapter about undetectable poisons.

 

_Tincture of Stinging Nettle: Causes stomach upset and general malaise_

_Essence of Agrimony: Causes skin hypersensitivity to sunlight and allergens_

_Powdered Boneset: Causes nausea and induces vomiting_

_Skullcap Oil: Causes excessive sleepiness and prolonged lethargy_

_Milk of Taraxacum: Causes fever and sweating_

 

~//~

 

 

“He’s beautiful, Scorpius,” his mother says with a sigh, “I can see why you love him so much.”

 

“He is,” agrees Scorpius, as he reverently caresses the side of Albus’ face, “The fairest boy in all the lands.” A pretty shade of pink blossoms across Albus’ cheeks beneath Scorpius’ fingertips.  Scorpius smiles.  Even in his sleep, Albus feels Scorpius’ love.

 

Scorpius brushes the raven-black fringe of Albus’ hair from his brow – his face is smooth as marble, soft in the rapture of sweet dreams, and as white as the first snow of winter.  His lips are still rosy, as if he and Scorpius had just been kissing.

 

Astoria relieves Albus of the half eaten apple in his hand and it vanishes with a flourish of her wand in a puff of green smoke.

 

~//~

 

 

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful queen with hair like rivers of golden light, whose heart was as tender as it was wicked. And so her love was as vicious as it was great. 

 

Her husband, the king, was handsome and elegant, but had inside him a heart of glass.  He wore spectacular suits of glittering armor to protect his fragile heart – but in doing so, his emotion was trapped within and he was impenetrable to love. The queen suffered thusly, left to anguish for years, alone, without the grace of the king’s love.

 

There is one thing that can penetrate even the thickest armor – that is the love between a mother and her son. When the king’s mother fell ill, he rushed to her side.  The queen was overjoyed to have her husband home, and the kingdom flourished. But what the king did not know was that the queen had poisoned her mother-in-law with an apple, for she knew that as long as the queen-mum was sick, the king would stay.  And he did.

 

When the queen bore a son, the prince was the sweetest, loveliest child there ever was, with hair as fair as his mother’s. The love that she felt for the prince was even greater than the love she had for the king.  So when the king’s mother “miraculously” recovered and the king left once again, the queen did not despair.

 

For years, the queen and her little prince thrived in their castle built of love.  The queen was never happier.  She never wanted her precious boy to leave her, and so she fed him miniscule amounts of poison in his apples – just enough to keep him vulnerable and in constant need of his mother.

 

When the prince grew into a young man and left the kingdom to be trained, the queen’s heart was broken.  The prince met another boy of royal blood while he was away – a prince so beautiful that the queen’s son was entranced. He had hair as dark as raven’s wings, skin as white as snow, and lips as red as fresh blood. The two princes fell deeply in love and nothing could tear them apart.

 

The queen was not a jealous woman. But her loneliness plagued her like a sickness.  The only thing that could cure her was the love of her son.  And so, she poisoned him like she had poisoned the king’s mother, to keep the prince ill and at home.

 

The prince grew lonely and despondent without his lover.  Though his mother, the queen, was happy, the prince was in utter despair.

 

The prince was as curious as he was lovely, so when he discovered a picnic hamper filled with apples and bottles of poison, he became aware of his mother’s secret.  But he did not punish the queen, for it was his fault that loneliness had driven her to take such extreme measures.

 

Instead, the prince and the queen filled a red, juicy apple with poison and fed it to the prince’s lover, who fell into a deep, blissful sleep.  Nothing would wake him. Not even the prince’s kiss.

 

Only the queen knew how to reverse the poison that kept the raven-haired prince in Dream’s embrace.  But there was no reason to do so.  Everyone had exactly what they wanted.  The prince had his lover, and the queen had her son.

 

And they all lived happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have recognized Astoria's actions as Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. It's a behavioral disorder where a caregiver, usually a mother, exaggerates and induces symptoms of illness in someone under their care.

**Author's Note:**

> You probably recognized the allusions to the classic fairy tales, Cinderella and Snow White.
> 
> Theodore Laurence from "Little Women" gets a little nod. 
> 
> Astoria's mum was named after, but not modeled after, Endora from the TV show "Bewitched".


End file.
